


Roaming The Greenwood

by Writcraft



Series: Rainy Weekend Prompts [1]
Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Love at First Sight, M/M, Non-Famous Harry, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22959523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: Nick’s plans for a quiet night in the country take an unexpected turn when he meets hotel gardener and topiary enthusiast, Harry Styles.
Relationships: Nick Grimshaw/Harry Styles
Series: Rainy Weekend Prompts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649929
Comments: 14
Kudos: 54





	Roaming The Greenwood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SunmiYeah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunmiYeah/gifts).



> Written for [kilimiria](https://kilimiria.tumblr.com/) who responded to my Rainy Weekend Prompts asking for Nick/Harry and the prompt ‘Nick hires a hot new gardener.’ I went a little off piste from the prompt, but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless! Thank you for such an inspiring prompt. Title and boathouse references inspired by E.M. Forster’s ‘Maurice.’
> 
> There is also going to be a follow up installment in this 'verse but in the meantime this can be read as a standalone.

That’s the problem with Hackney, Nick decides as he has a sip of his beer and watches the hotel gardener wrangle with a particularly hardy weed. No space for a proper garden.

Hackney’s lack of garden space wasn’t something that bothered Nick until approximately ten minutes ago, admittedly. Prior to that, he wasn’t thinking about Hackney at all. He was minding his own business, pestering Aimee on WhatsApp and relaxing in the late afternoon sun. At least he was trying to relax. Going away for the night without his dogs or friends was a stupid idea. Nick was on the verge of texting a friend with benefits just for some company, when he was distracted by a fit gardener emerging from behind the rhododendron. 

Nick drains the last of his beer and peruses the gardener through his sunglasses. It looks as though he’s talking to one of the flowers, holding it carefully in a large, gloved hand. Perhaps he’s a flower whisperer. Nick laughs at the thought. He loves a flower, but he prefers fresh, colourful bunches from Columbia Road to the sort you grow yourself. Unlike the gardener he doesn’t make a habit of talking to his flowers, mainly because he's not a total weirdo.

Gardens are a lot of maintenance and nobody wants to spend their weekends weeding. Besides, it’s pointless paying extra for extensive garden space in London with so many good parks around. As Nick watches the gardener however, he’s prepared to admit he may have been a little hasty. He makes wielding a trowel look fashionable, with a floral jumper cut low enough to reveal a tanned, tattooed chest. It doesn’t seem like standard gardening attire, but Nick isn’t complaining. Maybe gardening’s more Instagrammable than Nick imagined.

The gardener sneezes and wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Nice sequiturs,” Nick raises his voice and gives the gardener a wide smile when he turns from his tenacious weed. “They match the jumper and everything.”

“Thanks, man.” The gardener gives Nick the kind of smile that should come with a public health warning. He stands, pushing a rogue curl back from his damp forehead and revealing a sliver of tanned stomach in the process. It doesn’t escape Nick’s notice that his tattoos go all the way down, below the band of the gardener’s high-waisted flared blue jeans. There’s something very seventies about gardening in flares. “You should see my rake.” 

The gardener sounds Northern and his grin broadens, clearly proud of his joke. Nick can only assume he hasn’t heard the ones about hoes yet. Nick makes his way over and the gardener drops his sequiturs and yanks off his gloves as if he’s quite glad to have an excuse to chat to someone. Nick can relate. 

“Nick Grimshaw.” Nick offers his hand for shaking. 

“I know who you are. You’re Grimmy, off the radio.” The gardener’s cheeks take on a light flush, probably due to the energetic weeding from earlier. He looks a few years younger than Nick, unless gardening’s just good for the skin. He’s also even fitter on closer inspection. “I’m Harry Styles.”

“Hello Harry Styles.” Nick squeezes his hand around Harry’s, which is warm and large in his own. “Take it you’re—”

“Sorry, I—” Harry breaks off and turns away from Nick, yanking his hand back. He sneezes again. “Fucking hay fever.”

“You’re joking.” Nick turns his laugh into a cough when Harry looks offended. “You’re sure this is the right job for you?”

“It would be if they’d let me do some topiary,” Harry mutters. He sighs, pushing a hand through his hair and looking over Nick’s shoulder in the direction of the hotel. “It’s not forever. Mum manages the hotel and it helps if I do the gardening. Pay’s decent and it gives me time for other things.”

Nick raises an eyebrow at Harry, who shrugs in response. Nick looks curiously back at the hotel, trying to imagine him living in the grand old building. It’s pretty enough, but he can’t imagine being cooped up somewhere like this for longer than a few days. 

“I lived in Manchester for a while. I haven’t always been here.” Harry sounds amused. He gives Nick the quick once over before meeting his gaze again, a hopeful note in his voice. “Here on your own?”

“So far.” Nick holds his phone up with a rueful smile. “I was going to ask a friend to join me before I got distracted by that jumper of yours. Very London Fashion Week.”

“It’s like one I saw in a magazine, but this only cost a tenner from Oxfam.” Harry looks proud of himself then gives Nick a quizzical look. “Why didn’t your _friend_ come with you in the first place?”

“Thought it might be nice to have some time on my own for a change. No dogs, no mad nights out.” Nick pulls a face. “It’s dead boring.”

“Should put that in the guest book.” Harry laughs; a deep rumble. He has a way of speaking that’s earnest and playful all at once. Together with the dimple in his cheek, the floppy mess of his hair and a grass stain on the sleeve of his nice jumper, Nick is thoroughly charmed.

“I’ll make sure I say the gardens are lovely when I check out.” Nick touches his fingers to the sleeve of Harry’s jumper and the warmth of the lazy afternoon sun gathers in the air between them. “Grass.”

“Always happens.” Harry shrugs. “I’ll wash it later.” He nods to a path leading away from the hotel and into the grounds. “Come on, there’s something I want to show you.”

“Your new spade?” Nick falls into step beside Harry anyway, because he’s by far the most interesting thing about the quiet hotel. Nick's used to quick, casual encounters with men that don't last much longer than a night or two and he wouldn't mind if Harry's taking him off to seduce him in the woods somewhere. He could do with a bit of seducing. “Can’t wait.”

As the sun begins to slip below the horizon the pathway turns to fire as tendrils of the sunset filter through the cracks in the trees. It makes the walk inexplicably intimate, a comfortable quiet settling between them as if they’ve known one another for years. Nick decides he doesn't mind if Harry really is going to show him spades and compost. He has a feeling Harry Styles could make anything sound interesting. Nick just wants to hold on to the moment, with all its fleeting promise.

“You talk to flowers,” Nick comments. “I was watching you before, with that weed. Excellent trowel action.”

“Bet you say that to all the boys.” Harry snorts with laughter, his wide smile back. “Anyway, not like there’s anyone interesting to talk to around here. Not until you came along.”

There’s something about Harry’s wistful statement that makes Nick’s heart clench and he catches Harry’s sleeve, stopping them both in their tracks. A bird disturbs the still trees, flying up into the darkening sky, its soft song fading into the distance. 

“Come to London if you like. Try that topiary thing. I’ve got a hedge that’s perfect for turning into Pig. She’s my dog. It’s her favourite spot to go for a wee.” Nick really needs to stop talking. He can't just invite a random gardener to his house, even if he does have a very attractive smile.

“I know who Pig is.” Harry looks up at Nick, his earnest expression back. “I listen to the radio, when I’m gardening. I sing along to Miley and pretend I’m a pop star.”

“You’d make a good pop star,” Nick replies. “Excellent face for it.”

“Thank you.” Harry draws out the _ooo_ , a slow, lazy cadence to his voice that sounds almost musical to Nick's ears. He hopes Harry isn't going to reveal himself as some kind of woodland fae. Nick's great with fumbles that are over as quickly as they begin, but he'd prefer not to get off with an elf. He hasn't been able to take Orlando Bloom seriously since Lord of The Rings. That, and the paddle board incident. Harry's face breaks into a slow smile, almost as if he can hear Nick's mind whirring. “I’d like to get my hands on your hedge.”

“Saucy.” Nick grins at Harry, relaxing. Flirting, he can cope with. Harry's ears look perfectly normal and there's no sign of wings, so Nick thinks they're probably safe. He carries on walking. “I’ll do us a barbeque if the weather’s good. Love a barbeque, me.”

“Yeah.” The wistful note to Harry’s voice is back and he stuffs his hands in his pockets, kicking aside some nettles. “Sounds sick.”

“I mean it, you know.” Nick holds his hand out. “Give us your phone.”

“Really?” Harry raises his eyebrows, sounding lighter and more excited already. He hands Nick his phone after unlocking it with a press of his thumb. The nail is painted soft peach, the only one of his fingernails with any polish. “I haven’t been to London for years. Not since mum took me and Gemma—my sister—to Madame Tussauds. I got a picture with the Queen.”

“The wax one or the real one?” Nick wouldn’t be at all surprised if Harry ended up eating cucumber sandwiches at Buckingham Palace. He seems like the sort strange things happen to. 

“Wax. Bet the real Queen has loads of hedges I could practice my topiary on. I could do one of those corgis of hers.”

“They'd love that at the palace, I bet.” Nick laughs with Harry at the thought. He glances at Harry who watches intently as Nick puts his number under ‘Grim’ in his phone. His eyebrows are knitted in the middle, his expression serious as if something very important is happening. “I’m not one for giving my number out to any old gardener you know.” 

“Why me?” Harry takes his phone back after Nick calls his own phone from it and hangs up. “There must be plenty of brilliant gardeners in London. Really fancy ones, from Chelsea or summat.”

“I bet none of them garden in flares,” Nick replies easily. “Probably all boring overalls in London. I wouldn’t trust a gardener like that to get Pig right.”

“I’d make her look brilliant.” Harry sounds enthusiastic. “I’ve been practicing loads. Gemma says I'm like Edward Scissorhands. My middle name is Edward.”

“Oh my god. I hope you're not. I thought he was well scary as a kid.” Nick shows Harry his phone screen, so he can that Nick’s saved his number. His instinct tells him Harry isn’t the sort to sell stories or make a nuisance of himself and Nick’s instincts are pretty good by now. “Now I have someone to call when I need something pruning.”

“Harold Scissorhands.” Harry laughs as he studies Nick’s phone, a flush in his cheeks. “No one calls me Harold.”

“I do. Unless you hate it.”

“No.” Harry's voice is soft and warm. “I like it.”

“Well, then.” Nick follows Harry deeper into the wooded area, pushing aside some of the bracken as they veer off the main path. It occurs to Nick it's probably unwise to follow a man with a bag full of gardening implements into a darkening wood, but Nick can hardly be expected to take sensible decisions when confronted with a snappily dressed gardener with stacks of charm and a smile brighter than a lighthouse. A rustle from a nearby thicket of trees makes him shift closer to Harry. He’s glad rural Oxfordshire isn’t the sort of place you get bears. “I bet loads of wildlife come out at night.”

“A couple of hedgehogs, the odd fox. It’s not night yet. Probably still squirrels, or pheasant.” Harry stops as they reach a clearing with a large, round building in the centre. “This is my boathouse.”

“Your boathouse?” Nick approaches the building, relieved to be out of the woods at last. He touches the sandstone brickwork which is cool beneath his fingertips. “Who the fuck has their own boathouse?”

“I do.” Harry sounds pleased with himself. “For as long as my mum’s managing this place, anyway. Want to have a look inside?”

“Yeah.” Nick looks around, unable to see anything vaguely resembling water. “Where are all the boats?”

“They're in the a proper boathouse down by the lake. I take the guests out on it in the summer. I did my lifeguard test and rowing’s easy enough once you get the hang of it.” Harry pushes open the door and beckons Nick inside. “No idea why they call this a boathouse too. Maybe there was water here once, back in the olden days. Not anymore, though. At least there isn’t a flood risk.”

“Handy,” Nick agrees. He watches Harry get the log fire burner going and slides his sunglasses off his head, dropping them on a nearby shelf before taking a proper look around. There’s a small table and a few chairs, as well as an armchair that’s seen better days. The floor is covered with cushions and a couple of colourful blankets. A haphazard pile of books on the table are placed next to a vase with a pretty sprig of wildflowers. Murakami, Sontag and a large tome on topiary. A coffee table is stacked high with glossy fashion magazines that look as though someone’s been pouring over them, certain pages bookmarked with torn-off strips of paper. 

Nick studies the walls which are plastered with photographs. The usual family photos are mixed with arty shots of flowers, wildlife and a few pictures of Manchester. He doesn't miss the photographs of drag queens and the bright sign from Manchester's Canal Street. Although it's not enough to confirm that Harry's interested in men, that plus the flirting give Nick some hope. Not that he minds, particularly. The boathouse is cool and Harry's got the kind of personality that makes Nick want to stick around whatever they end up doing.

“Are these yours?” Nick gestures towards the photographs.

“All mine. I got that one of the sparrow in the _Countryfile_ calendar last year.” Harry sounds chuffed with himself, as well he might. Eileen gets the _Countryfile_ calendar for all her friends every Christmas. It’s a big deal, that. “It’s what I like to do, when I’m not gardening.”

“They’re dead good,” Nick says, sincerely. He means it. Harry has as good an eye for photography as he does for stumbling across fashionable bargains in charity shops. Nick runs his fingers over a dog-eared postcard of Tower Bridge, the edges curled and frayed. “Is this from your London trip?”

“Yeah.” Harry moves closer, his body warm against Nick’s. “I always wanted to go back but I don’t know many people in London, so there didn’t seem to be much point when hotels cost a fortune. Anyway, it’s been busy here. I have to get it looking nice for the summer coach trips.”

“Now you know me.” Nick turns, his breath catching in his throat as Harry gives him a dark-eyed look. “I’m in London. You wouldn’t need a hotel. There’s a spare room,” he adds, hurriedly.

“Good to know.” Harry grins. He runs his tongue over his lips and shifts closer to Nick, his voice lowering. “There aren’t many people like me around this place. Not unless you count Geoff. He stays every June, but I think he’s ninety. I’ve always liked older men, but not, like, _old_.”

“I’m getting on a bit myself, young Harold.” Nick slides his hand over Harry’s arm, and doesn’t miss the way a shiver travels through his body. “I’ve had to get that face cream from Boots they’re all raving about to keep the wrinkles at bay.”

“I like your face.” Harry’s voice is quiet and earnest. He sways closer. “It’s a good face. I said to mum once you have kind eyes. Sort of crinkly at the edges. In a good way.” He flushes and it makes Nick’s heart do a weird, fond kick.

“Oi. Stop telling your mum about my wrinkles.”

“I’m not a stalker or anything.” The flush in Harry’s cheeks deepens. “I just like your show, that’s all. I’m not a _fan_.”

“Thanks very much.” Nick tries not to sound offended. He wouldn’t mind. He quite likes fans. They’re a lot better than the Twitter trolls. “What else have you told your mum about me?”

“Nothing,” Harry mutters. He drops his gaze to the floor. “We listen to your show sometimes, when I’m helping her around the hotel. She likes you. She follows you on Instagram.”

“She sounds like she has good taste, your mum. Don't you follow me on Instagram?”

“I don't follow anyone. I can't stand that stuff, not even if it's good for photos.” Harry shrugs. “I probably should get one, I've just never bothered. Maybe I'll have a topiary business one day. I could use it for that.”

“You could.” Nick takes Harry’s hand in his and rubs his thumb against Harry’s skin which is smooth and warm. He looks at Harry’s painted thumbnail, tracing the chips in it. “It’s a good colour.”

“Thanks.” Harry’s voice is rough. “I like wearing it sometimes. I take it off when I’m helping on reception. People think it’s weird. Those fusty ones that stay here during shooting season, with their green Jags and tweed. I bet they wouldn’t think it’s weird in London.”

“No,” Nick agrees. “Nothing weird about it. Just a bit of nail polish. You should paint all of them for London. Not just this one.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s breath catches in his throat and he presses close, making Nick’s heart gallop in his chest. “Nick…”

Nick’s stomach squirms the way it does just before a kiss that matters. He’s not sure why this feels so different to the casual, boozy one night stands he meets at pubs or industry parties, but it does. His anxiety spikes and he’s as nervous as a teenager, the memory of kissing another boy for the first time rolling inexplicably through his head. His younger self with flushed cheeks and bad skin takes hold in his brain, the image of his awkward fifteen-year-old face making butterflies in his belly as if he’s starting his faltering journey of self-discovery all over again.

With a sigh, Nick shakes away the images and wraps his arms around Harry. He tips his head slowly to be sure he hasn’t misread the signals and their lips meet in the kind of slow kiss that vibrates through your bones. With a groan, Nick tugs Harry tight against his body. His heart thuds in his chest as their mouths open to one another, hot, wet and searching. Harry makes a sound that lands like an arrow in Nick’s heart; a strange, snuffly, moan of a thing that’s as weird as it is ridiculously endearing. It short-circuits Nick’s brain, making him shuffle them back until they land in an untidy tangle on the well-cushioned floor. Harry is like an octopus with his legs and arms wrapping around Nick, yanking him deep into another kiss.

“I think you’re brilliant.” Harry’s voice is the well-kissed kind of gruff that sends a happy shiver down the entire length of Nick’s spine. He noses at Nick’s neck, his voice muffled. “You smell really good.”

“Thanks.” Nick can’t help but laugh at that, tugging Harry back when he pulls away with an offended frown. “So do you. Like grass and flowers.”

“Give over.” Harry snorts with laughter and he catches Nick’s smiling lips in an inexpert kiss. “It’s Nivea Sport.”

“Strong choice,” Nick says. He slides his hand under Harry’s jumper, feeling the clench of his belly beneath the palm of his hand. “I love the tattoos.”

“You haven’t seen them all yet.” Harry looks at Nick with shining eyes. “I’ve got some stupid ones. I had a mate in Manchester that wanted to be a tattoo artist. I used to let him practice on me. He was shit before he got good. I've got the word 'Big' on my big toe. My mum went mental.”

“Is that the sort of thing you do?” Nick is taken by surprise at the protective rush of emotion that swells in his chest at the thought of Harry offering his skin for his friend to practice tattoos on. “Do you just let someone tattoo you, because they need to get better at it?”

“Not just someone, my best mate. At least he was. We fell out of touch a bit. He did it properly in a parlour with new needles and all the sanitisers and stuff. Anyway, I’m very helpful.” Harry plucks open Nick’s shirt with deft fingers. He stops about halfway down and swallows, running his hand over the red material. “This is nice.”

“Bit much for a weekend in Oxfordshire,” Nick admits. “But I like it.”

“Me too.” Harry returns to the next button, fiddling with it before undoing it slowly. “It’s Gucci, isn’t it? I recognise the design.”

“It’s not, like, new. But yeah.” Nick feels vaguely embarrassed about his posh silk shirt, not that he should. He didn’t exactly anticipate spending Saturday evening snogging a gardener who hoards back issues of _Vogue_ in his boathouse. Nick finishes opening the buttons on his shirt and stands, tugging Harry to his feet. “Bet it would suit you. Try it on. You can have it, if it fits.”

“I can’t have your shirt, are you mad? It’s _Gucci_.” 

“It’s yours, if you want.” Nick’s starting to wonder if all the pollen’s gone to his head. He doesn’t give his number out easily and he definitely doesn’t give away his favourite shirts to people he’s only just met. He shrugs out of the shirt and tries not to stare as Harry yanks off his jumper, dropping it on the floor. 

“It feels so nice.” Harry’s voice is low as he slides the shirt on. “Does it look stupid?”

“No.” Nick’s voice catches in his throat, his jaw working as he takes in the sight of Harry. His hair’s standing on end, on account of Nick running a careless hand through it a moment ago. His chest rises and falls, the two swallow tattoos peeking out from the open shirt. He’s ridiculously lovely, and Nick is absolutely fucked. “It doesn’t look stupid. It looks wicked.”

“It does?” Harry frowns and cranes his neck as if it might help him see the shirt better. “Wish I had a mirror.”

“Here.” Nick digs his phone out of his pocket and snaps a quick picture, handing it to Harry. “See?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s cheeks get pink as he looks at the picture. After staring at it for a long time, Harry pulls the shirt off and hands it back to Nick. “I can’t take this.”

“Why?” Nick slips the shirt back on. “Don’t you like it?”

“It’s too much. It feels weird, like—” Harry stops, his lips pressing together in a line. He moves close to Nick again, his fingers sliding down Nick’s chest. “The thing is, I want to…you know.”

“I’ve got an idea.” Nick sucks in a breath as Harry’s fingers move lower, tickling against his belly. It should make him laugh, but it doesn’t. There’s nothing funny about the hungry look in Harry’s eyes or the way Nick’s body responds eagerly to the flush in his cheeks and the quirk of his smile. “I don’t get it.”

“I knew you were coming here today. Mum said last week, when she took the booking. I didn’t want to be embarrassing, asking for autographs or a selfie, that sort of thing. I was going to avoid you, but then you were outside asking about my sequiturs and you’re so fucking _nice_. I’m just a twenty-something that works for his mum. I can’t even go to London for the weekend, I haven't done anything important yet and—”

“Hey.” Nick moves his hands over Harry’s arms, realising he’s shivering. “Come here, don’t be soft. Helping your mum's important. Most important job of all, that. Then there's that topiary business of yours. You're going to be doing corgis for the Queen in a year or two, just wait.” 

“If you give me the shirt, you’ll think it’s because of that.” Harry’s words are muffled as he burrows into Nick. “I don't want you to think it's because you've given me an expensive shirt. It's not. You’re even better than on the radio.”

“I don’t think it’s because of the shirt.” Nick tightens his hold on Harry, stroking a hand over his back. “Tell you what, why don’t you put that jumper of yours back on and show me some of these pages you’ve marked in the magazines?”

“Fine.” Harry looks slightly put out, tugging his jumper over his head with a huff. At least he doesn't seem upset anymore. “Do you know how hard it is to get sex out here? I live in a fucking _boathouse_.”

“Very grand of you,” Nick agrees. “You’re like one of them dowager’s or whatever they’re called.”

“I am not.” Harry laughs. He sits on the cushions and grabs the magazines, gesturing for Nick to join him. They browse through the pages Harry marked, until a silence stretches between them. Nick looks up to find Harry watching him with a confused expression. “Why did you stop before we got anywhere?”

“Because I’m a twat.” Nick reaches for Harry and pulls him close, pressing a kiss to his neck which makes Harry grunt softly. “Dunno. Thought it might be better to wait for London, so you can see I’m serious about letting you practice your topiary on my hedges.”

“I’ve never had a shag in the boathouse.” Harry manages to sound huffy, even when breathless. “I’ve spent ages making it nice enough to bring someone back. You should have seen it before. Just mice, and a few spiders.”

Nick does a quick check because after finding a mouse in his pants in a student bedsit years ago, he has no desire to encounter another one. “Sounds romantic.” 

“It wasn’t.” Harry shoves the magazines out of the way to curl closer against Nick, making his breathing stutter. They share another kiss, slow and sweet with the whisper of Harry’s breath soft on Nick’s lips as he pulls back. “Mum’s going to be wondering where I am, soon. I said I’d be back for my tea, which is—” Harry reaches for his phone and squints at it. “In half an hour.”

“Wouldn’t want to worry your mum.” Nick slides his hands down Harry’s back and pulls him close, making them both groan. “Half an hour, hmm?”

“Yeah. Enough time for…something?” Harry sounds hopeful. “I got cushions and everything. Seems a shame to let it all go to waste.”

“Could probably fit something in,” Nick agrees. 

His plan to wait was a rubbish one, a fact that’s emphasised by the insistent press of Harry’s dick against his thigh. He slips his hands lower and squeezes Harry’s arse, pulling him in for another kiss. They roll around like that on the cushions for a while, before Nick gets his hand between them. The position is awkward, like his wrist’s going to snap off, and it only gets worse when Harry surges close for another kiss.

“Steady,” Nick whispers. He rolls Harry back onto the cushions and nudges him to yank off his jumper, before making his way down Harry’s body. He undoes Harry’s jeans without any messing around, after one quick look up to check Harry’s on board with his plan. “Yeah?”

“ _Fuck_ , yeah,” Harry replies, with flattering enthusiasm. Nick grins and pushes down Harry’s pants and jeans, before taking him into his mouth. 

It turns out Harry does quite a lot of uncoordinated flailing when he’s turned on, and it’s a wonder Nick doesn’t get kneed in the bollocks. He soon realises that holding Harry firmly against the cushions is not only good for health and safety reasons, but also for Harry. He definitely likes being held still, Nick realises. He gets a shaky, breathless sort of quiet, before curses and pleas fall from his lips. _Nick, Nick, Nick_.

“I’ve got you,” Nick whispers, after. He pulls back and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, moving up to pull Harry close. He sucks in a breath as Harry’s hot fingers work open his trousers, his eyes dark and bright. A gust of wind outside makes the trees rustle and the boathouse creak, as Nick falls back on the cushions with a groan of pleasure.

“You too,” Harry says. His hand is sure and firm on Nick, his breath hot against a particularly sensitive spot on Nick’s neck. “I’ve got you too.”

By the time they’ve tidied themselves up and made it look less like they’ve been taking a tumble, Harry’s mum’s texted twice and Nick’s been invited to eat tea with them.

*

“I hope you enjoyed your stay, Mr Grimshaw.” Harry’s on reception when Nick checks out, a cheeky smile on his face. Nick does his level best to ignore the flush of heat that travels through him at _Mr Grimshaw_. It gives him all sorts of ideas, fueled by the memory of snogging Harry until their lips were numb in the hotel gardens after tea. Like a good Victorian lady, Nick primly took himself off to bed alone and firmly ignored Harry's smug comment about it being difficult to walk in skinny jeans with a hard-on.

“Very enjoyable,” Nick says, knowing he's red to the tips of his ears. “Thanks for the err, hospitality.”

“Anytime.” Harry has a decidedly filthy look in his eyes. “Was the service to your liking, Sir?”

“Yeah, great service, thanks.” Nick glares at Harry, whose mum is literally _right there_ watching them both with an amused smile on her face. “You’re a menace,” he hisses.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re completely _satisfied_ ,” Harry comments breezily.

“Leave poor Nick alone.” Anne—Harry’s mum—kisses Harry’s head, giving his hair a ruffle. “Bye Nick, come and visit us again soon.”

“I will,” Nick promises. He means it, too. He waits until Anne leaves and then digs a small parcel out of his suitcase, although parcel might be overstating it. It’s mainly just a Tesco’s bag with a shirt in it. He hands it to Harry. “I’m not giving you this before you start going on, but you can borrow it until you come to London. Try not to put a rake through it or get grass stains on it.”

“The shirt.” A flush of excitement spreads across Harry’s face. “I can borrow it, really?”

“’Course you can.” Nick gives Harry a wink. “Means you’ll have to bring it back, too. Works out for both of us.”

“I could use the Post Office instead. A fine British institution.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I wouldn’t,” Harry agrees. He glances around to check his mum isn’t within earshot and then grips Nick’s jumper, leaning over the counter to give him a hot, filthy kiss until he elbows the bell and a loud _ding_ startles them apart. “Drive safely. Play a song for me on the radio, something I can sing along to.”

“I’ll do my best.” Nick clears his throat, a strange, shy feeling creeping over him. This is always the awkward bit. The _did you mean it?_ stage of wondering if Harry really will come to London, or if goodbye will be the end of it all. “I’ll text you, yeah? About that hedge.”

“Yeah.” Harry flicks through the diary on the counter. “I’ll check with mum, but it should be fine. Just give me a week’s notice, so I can practice on one of the hedges by the boathouse.”

“You don’t have to do the hedge.” Nick clears his throat, giving Harry a small smile. “I’m fully supportive of your topiary, but you could just, like, come anyway. Bring back that shirt, help me cook a Sunday roast, meet Pig and Stinky.”

Harry folds his arms. “What if I want to do the hedge?”

“Then it’s all yours.” Nick leans forward for one more kiss, sweeter this time, thinking of Harry’s tattoos. “You can practice on my garden whenever you want.”

“Can I practice other things too?” Harry’s smile widens.

“If you ask nicely.” Nick gives him a wave and makes his way to his car.

When he’s packed his overnight bag in the boot, Nick sits at the wheel before starting the engine and his heart kicks in his chest. He sits back, a smile tugging at his lips. His phone pings and he reaches for it, checking his messages. It’s a selfie of Harry, already wearing the shirt which he hasn’t bothered to button up very far. It looks good enough that Nick’s tempted to get out of the car and drag Harry back to his boathouse, his obligations in London be damned.

With a sigh, Nick turns on the engine. He fires off a quick reply to Harry and puts the radio on as he begins the drive back to London.

When he pulls into the services on the M40 for a fag break he finds another text from Harry on his phone. _This is how it begins,_ Nick thinks. _This is where it starts_.

With a happy laugh, he gets back into the car and sings along to Miley with the memory of Harry's kisses still lingering on his lips.


End file.
